Tiamat's Metamorphosis
by Odyssey of Oneiroi
Summary: (Or : Rowan and the Great Perils of Improvisation) Shakespeare could not have put it any better himself. Every player was given their role, even her - an extra who had no business meddling with backstage affairs like Scooby-Doo. It was just bad luck that got her the most important role of all. Too bad she never bothered to memorize the script.
1. Chapter 1

**title :** Tiamat's Metamorphosis

 **summary :** (Or : Rowan and the Great Perils of Improvisation) Shakespeare could not have put it any better himself. Every player was given their role, even her - an extra who had no business meddling with backstage affairs like Scooby-Doo. It was just bad luck that got her the most important role of all. Too bad she never bothered to memorize the script.

 **disclaimer :** Ha ha. No. The _Harry Potter_ series rightfully belongs to J.K. Rowling.

 **posted :** 11/24

 **note i :** you don't scare me! (dodges a brick thrown in my a direction) okay, okay! he scares me... just a bit. (dodges a ukulele) alright, who's giving away this crap to use against me?! let me talk people!

if by any chance you spot a spelling mistake, i'd like to say in advance... i don't have my glasses... heh heh. ow! (picks up what hit me in the head) these are _sun_ glasses!

* * *

[ **Opening Act :** _"From the arms of Morpheus, I awoke"_ ]

 _"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."_ -William Shakespeare

* * *

 **31 October, 1981 (Hallowe'en Night)**

There was the distant ticking of a clock. _Tick Tock. Tick Tock_. It felt like a countdown, but what was it counting to? _Tick Tock. Tick Tock._ Between here and then, there and now, the clock ticked and tocked in a steady rythm.

She wondered what lied beyond this illusion of limited perception. The stars? A field of daisies? The sea full of iridescent sea creatures? Or just the the flat beige of her ceiling after having another "out-of-this-world" dream - her best friend's words, not hers.

But there was light. By the miraculous will of god - if _He_ really existed - there was light and she never imagined it could burn.

A brilliant, emerald light which blinded the senses. Deep in the crevices of her mind something hissed and bucked unto slumber, and even deeper, something profound and alien poured itself into her mind like thick, warm syrup. It raged and reverberated uproars throughout her soul before settling down to a tepid, but bubbling, pool of molten liquid knowledge.

Beating alongside the clock's incessant ticking was her heart keeping perfect pace.

It took her a minute to realize her eyes were open, and another few to properly focus on the image before her. Tiny hands which wiggled and curled as she willed them to. Were these her hands? Impossible. These weren't her hands. Her hands were bigger with longer, slender fingers which danced across ivory keys. There had been a scar on her left ring finger when she tried on her best friend's mother's wedding ring, until it dawned to her that it _did not fit_. Both thumbnails were chipped from biting and the right middle was lightly bruised from the time she slammed the door onto it.

Her not-hands curled with just a flex of her not-fingers.

Smaller hands meant a child's hands. These were tiny, not unlike an infants' with skin lighter than she recalled, and softer than she could have imagined. This was new, she'd never dreamt of herself as an infant. It wasn't impossible, she could recall fondly the times she slept within the arms of Morpheus - dreaming as an invisible child, a magical girl, on rare occasions as a boy, and that time she rolled out of bed, believing she was drowning despite the fact she was mermaid.

She brought a not-hand to her eye, rubbing at it lightly until she felt something wet against her not-palm. That was... That's strange. She never cried when she dreamt, heck, she rarely cried when awake! She guessed there was a first time for anything, but it didn't quell the anxiety growing in her stomach in the least.

 _Tick Tock_

Beyond these tiny false limbs were bars which limited her movement, but not her vision. A room, furniture, toys, and a woman. The latter was more important but it was strange that she noted her last. The woman, beautiful scarlet hair - like blood - splayed about like a halo with dull, glassy green orbs staring _directly_ into her own teary pair, remained still and quiet. Her chest did not rise so she did not breathe, and with skin so white she may as well be-Oh. This woman was dead.

There was no denying the fact the death was a tragic to the living and eternal peace, or damnation, to the dead, but she had never been personally affected by the death of those dear to her. There those few and in between frie-acquaintances that had lost someone dear to them but the most someoe like her could offer was an ear and shoulder to listen and cry on, respectively. It was a strange feeling out of the league, unsure of which action was appropriate and which would set them off into another bawling fit.

She was dreaming within a child's body, looking straight into a dead woman's eyes, and all she could wonder was-

.

.

.

 _"Rowan, you are so loved. Mama loves you. Dada loves you. Rowan, be safe. Be strong."_

.

.

.

Why did her heart ache for this empty corpse?

 _Tiiiicck Tooooo-_

Time to wake up now.

* * *

She did not wake up - why did she not wake up? To be more specific, she did not wake up as her real self, she woke as her dream self instead. Was she still asleep? Why was she still asleep, her alarm should have sound by now. Did the light go out or something? That was the first sign that something was not right.

Her eyes were beginning to burn and her throat beginning to itch. Even as a grown woman, she never loved the dark and doubted she ever would. There were just some fears one never grew out of.

(Unofficially, this was the second time she received a warning but she was stupid enough to brush of the first. Hindsight is 20/20 after all.)

There was the barest of sliver of light coming from across, hardly enough to illuminate the whole room, and if it weren't for that trickle of light, she would've continued thinking she was asleep. Or awake. Beyond that, hushed voices that held no meaning in particular. She wondered for a moment about their identities and what they symbolized within the dream before pushing that idea aside.

Raising the tiny not-hand, she wondered with a dreamy sigh leaving lips, her not-fingertips barely casting a shadow against the light, of her purpose - within the dream, of course. As well as the disappearance of the _tocktocktick_.

There had to be more than seeing dead people and being tantalized by the promise of escaping obscurity, all while being a baby.

(There was something important about that woman - a song, a movie, a book, the television. She had seen her somewhere and she was really _important_.)

At her best, her brain could conjure a variety of images at once but this was pretty tame, not to mention boring. She didn't know how long she waited within the barely lit room. Minutes? Hours? _Days?_ She was going to fall back to sleep at this rate. If you fall asleep in the reality, you awake in your dreams. If you fall asleep in your dreams, you awake in reality. Which begs the question, which is reality? And which is your dreams?

The not-child groaned quietly, the sound coming out like whine, tempted to facepalm. Philosophical thinking was the last thing she needed. At this rate she'll drive herself insane before boredom sets in and kil-

.

.

.

 _"Sing me the song", I rolled my eyes at his demand, knowing he wouldn't be able to see it. "What's the magic word?" I teased and laughed as he pouted. "Yes? Ouch! Who taught you to be so violent?!" He rubbed his arm where I had slapped him._

 _Above us, twinkling stars were sprinkled across the dark void as the last of sunlight bade us good night. Beneath us, the evergreen grass darkened and cooled to a comfortable degree._

 _Until everything turned red._

 _"We need to get out of here!" He shouted, dragging me along as we ran through the inferno. "Wait... Wai...t... Pleas-Stop! I can't-! I can't brea-!" My eyes felt dry and wet, a paradox blurring my sight turning it into a collage of warm colors. Breathing was a chore, the air poisoning and burning my lungs and I knew for a fact that he was suffering too._

 _There was a crack above me._

 _The screaming of a boy._

 _And the scent of barbecue._

.

.

.

Oh. _Oh_. Boredom can't kill her because she was already dead - or was she?

Her hands - _dancing across ivory keys, a rambunctious melody filled the air_ \- turned a blistering red and black, but the image itself was a bizarre, distorted echo compared to these baby hands. It ate her. The fire, painfully and slowly, ate her away and turned her into an ashen corpse. Yet by some miracle or another she was alive and as a child? How? And _why_? The not-child released a strange amalgation of a sob and a laugh at her own redundancy.

Though dream like the situation had been at the beginning, she wasn't stupid, her brain was merely trying to rationalize her situation while denying the truth.

Olivia Sterling was dead.

(Somewhere in the back of her mind, a _tickticktocking_ began. She laughed.)

* * *

[ **End of Opening Act** ]

* * *

\- **Preview :** _Act I_ -

 _She traced the cursive writing of the letter, her fingers looping over the ink spelling out her name._

* * *

 **note ii :** so! that happened. what do you think of my prologue? there are a few things i'd like to say in advance, for starters, i've only watched the movies and my knowledge concerning the books are in bits and pieces. (i.e. i can only name up to six horcruxes at the top of my head - and that's including Harry.) i am quite aware of my faulty memory and i am sort of relying that in this story as this tells the story of a self-insert who only had a certain amount of knowledge concerning the Potterverse and the butterflies she creates through those actions. hence the subtitle.

 **questions :**

 _this may be a bit early, but what impression has my character left you with in regards to her housing?_

 _which house do you hope for her to be in?_

 _anything you look forward to in this story?_

 **Review whether you're a guest or an author.**


	2. Chapter 2

**note i :** i do not believe in perfection. i believe in my own definition of perfection but life does give a crap about opinions so there. also, Olly/Rowan's opinions do not entirely reflect my own.

 **posted :** 12/05  
 **edit :** 12/13 (found aew spelling mistakes. o the horror.)

* * *

\- **Review :** _Opening Act_ -

 _Though dream like the situation had been at the beginning, she wasn't stupid, her brain was merely trying to rationalize the situation while denying the truth._

 _Olivia Sterling was dead._

 _(Somewhere in the back of her mind, a_ tickticktocking _began. She laughed.)_

 _._

 _._

 _._

[ **Act I, Part I :** _"To the tune of Peter Pan, I dance"_ ]

 _"What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again."_ -Anaïs Nin

* * *

Regardless of what people would seem to think, one simply isn't born into this world _knowing_ they are being brought into this world. We are born in a similar fashion to an idea, so sudden and spontaneous, it may as well have been a collision of worlds. And like an idea, it will be brought to life - no ifs, ands or buts.

I like to think of it as riding a bicycle, minus the training wheels. If you don't pedal fast enough, you fall over and skin yourself a good chunk of flesh. But if it's too fast... well, I'm sure we all know how that ends. Finding the more-than-adequate balance when riding is difficult, but completely worth it, and from there it's smooth sailing.

This was not smooth sailing. This was the complete opposite of smooth sailing. Better yet, fuck smooth sailing. Smooth sailing is for spineless cowards, hippies, cats - fickle creatures, grandpa and I'm a bigger idiot than I thought because when it comes to life, there is no such thing as smooth sailing. My philosophy teacher would be dissapointed. Grandma too.

The moment I, as Olly Sterling, decided to 'wake up and smell the coffee' was probably the most stressful moments of my life. Is it possible for babies to get anxiety attacks? What about panic attacks? Is there a difference?

My first seconds into this life had me disillusioned and confused, asking myself, _When will I wake up?_

When will I wake up to find myself on the floor before struggling out of my blankets I'd, once again, found myself tangled to only to have an inane argument with myself concerning how much more sleep could I gain before leaving to work. Then, by the time I'd reach a conclusion, it would've been far too late, and once again would I find myself hanging my head with defeat before getting prepared. It was ritualistic, the way I did things I mean.

Denial, you bitch, I thought you loved me. We were best friends so why the fuck did you leave me?!

That's when I met red. The vast amount of eye-searing red made something inside me reel back in horror as realization dawned. Red was the color of my nightmares licking away at my senses. Just the barest of glimpses would cause me to relapse. It didn't end because there was no end. It was all real, as real as the air in my lungs and the clothes against my skin.

I didn't want to accept it at first because what did I ever do to deserve this? I had been an amicable person, once upon a time. A tad awkward around people but I persevered. Perhaps what set me apart from those back then was that I never felt compelled hide my vices. I'd become my grandmother which admittedly is not all that bad 'cause granny was a pretty cool bat but I lacked her wisdom so yeah.

With each and passing moment of this life I was living I remembered. With each memory came knowledge, and with knowledge came a certain power. Power I did _not_ want.

(With great power comes great responsibility.)

Then there were those moments, brief and dispered throughout like stars, that came with age where I alternated between the adult I was and the child I am. With a flip of the metaphorical light switch I would cry myself hoarse, and some days I laughed over how ridiculously tiny were my toddler-sized feet. Eventually the light switch broke and forced into a state of equilibrium. Do I want to punch Dudders in the face, punishment be damned; or run away to the nearest airport and sneak in into someone's luggage?

It was not the gift of life which I spurned - life was something I would welcome with open arms, alongside death - rather, it was the gift of _knowing_. Knowing the obstacles I would face growing up once again, knowing all my years of hard labor were thrown out the window into the stratosphere, knowing that no one but me would remember dear ol' Olivia Sterling. Olivia Sterling who would love nothing more than to sit back on her grandmother's leather recliner with a cup of warm milk with honey and listen to music on her old record player.

No one would be the wiser. You could argue that Olivia Sterling was a metaphysical concept that simply decided to overshadow the child's mind, weave her own tale from under her creator's nose, and simply dump her life story onto said creator without so much as a "Goodbye". What a bitch.

Thus the tale of dear ol' Olivia Sterling came to an end.

 _As if._

Because as much as I hated knowing too much, I also hated not knowing _enough_.

* * *

 **24 August, 1987**

 **08:30 AM**

When one is up high enough to touch the sky, they're gifted with what is known as a bird's eye view. Everything becomes clearer all of the sudden. Puzzle pieces would slowly drift into place, each curve and crevice welcoming their other half to create its intended image. And if it had mouths to speak with, it would say something among the lines of, _This is how it was meant to be._

In response, you would sit back and nod - a bit abashed at your own tardiness yet proud nonetheless - admiring your completed work while laughing, _How did I not see this before?_ Sure, after all was said and done you could look back on it freely wondering what could have been done differently if the answer was so obvious. This would have been avoided, that would have been accomplished much sooner, but than this would've never happened which would lead to this, and so on and so forth.

"Hindsight is for the guilty", her once-grandmother would say. Such cruel and honest words just like their owner.

On an unrelated note, Rowan broke her aunt's favorite cup.

She wasn't going to lie to herself, in fact, she makes a habit not to lie unless it was a) necessary or b)via omission which isn't technically lying if you ask her. Where as Rowan carries over two decades worth of knowledge as well as common sense, she can comprehend the need for such actions. Petunia lacks commons sense, better yet, that mouse did not even carry a fraction of this type of knowledge despite the fact the woman is most likely older than her - physically and mentally. Really dissapointing in her opinion but what can one do? The only time the mouse-woman had ever shown an ounce of common sense is when playing the role of the perfect housewife. (Mousewife? Ew. Bad pun.) Just thinking about it makes her cringe. There is not enough plastic in the world to pull her smile any wider than it already is.

The Dursley's left to drop Dudders off on his first day of school, leaving her lonesome self to clean the house and whatever menial chores the Dursley's expect her to do. Apparently, the first week of school belonged to Dudley and Dudley alone, so she was held back every first week of school to avoid ruining "Popkin's chances of making a good first impression". Rowan shook her head in exasperation and annoyance. People like them are insufferable.

Knowing them - and what a horrifying thought that was - they probably won't return early, given how much they spoil the child they'll most likely take him to some fancy-schmancy restaurant to celebrate whatever he seemed to accomplish. Like when he took his first steps or uttered his first words. It was merely common knowledge in this house by now, but if you asked her - since they never would, not in a million years - the amount of effort, or the fact there's any effort in this at all, to downgrade an almost harmless seven-year-old is both depressing and pathetic quite frankly.

That is not how you (properly) hate someone.

Back to the broken cup.

Rowan stared down at the shattered pieces of porcelain on the floor while racking her brain for a solution. The girl always made use of every second of every moment the Dursley's were out to exercise the use of her magic. (Magick? Majjyyks? Whatever.) This wouldn't be the first time she pondered over her situation, asking herself whether there were worse positions than as a female Harry Potter : so far she's only come up with being in Tom Marvolo Riddle's position, I mean, didn't that take place in the 20's or something?

(Of course, if Rowan were Tom she would've set half of London on fire but unfortunately she must play the part of the Girl-Who-Lived.)

At this point in time, the most Rowan could accomplish was levitating multiple objects in the air. Hence the broken cup. Did you really expect her to climb a chair while carrying a set of plates? Keep dreaming. So far, she's weeded the garden, vacuumed the floors and curtains, dust the fine china, and now all that remained was putting away the dishes. She was done with manual labor for the day, and so proceeded with magickal labor. It's been done before and not a single accident had yet to occur. Until the broken cup. Damn you broken cup for ruining her perfect record.

Damn you.

(It was the sink incident all over again. Except now she had finer control.)

"There was a spell for this. I know there was a spell for this..." She tapped her tiny fingers against her chin, repeating the words under her breath while her mind ran through each spell and their effects. While it would be easier to write them all down, it would be dangerous if that knowledge were to fall into someone else's hands. Not to mention she knows jack about how to incorporate magic into it so as to prevent snoopers. The old fashion way will have to do.

(It's not like she could perform any of them in the first place. One thing at a time.)

Crouching down to the floor, she carefully dragged the remains of the cup to one place and twirled her finger slowly. In Rowan's mind's eye, the pieces would slowly come together like a puzzle and stay _together_. Reality, however, is something we must all face because just seconds after the orphan released her hold on the cup, it fell apart. Like her life. Fuck.

"Jeez, do I really need a magick word? Christ you people..." Rowan grumbled something unladylike under her breath before concentrating on her magick once more. _Work with me, work with me_ , she chanted inside her mind, diverting all her attention onto her magickal core. It wasn't about the cup anymore, it was about the fact of doing something outside of her usual floating cups and toys. If returning something broken to it's former state is possible, than what else can she do? What could she be capable of?

The energy from within flowed outwards once more and stretched-no, flared out beautifully and wrapped the fragmented pieces of porcelain into a cocoon of magick. White shards slowly elevated into the air before coming together under the twirl of her finger and reforming the beloved cup of her aunt Petunia. It lifted itself off of the clean floors and onto the hands of the young girl who grinned at her accomplishment. "I wonder what else I can fix?" Rowan giggled while juggling the cup in her hand.

 _Crack!_

"...yeah, I saw that one coming."

* * *

 **30 August, 1987**

 **09:56 AM**

"Girl."

These people really needed to come up with new material because "Freak", "Girl" and "Brat" just weren't going to cut it. Monosyllabic names aside, shattering cups against the wall would've been a fun new side hobby but alas. After the sink incident, Rowan had been forced into a difficult position where over exerting the use of magick had caused some unwanted (read : hilarious) results. The Dursley's had kept a much closer eye on her since then. In fact, they did everything in their power to insure her a life without peace and quiet.

Work. Work. Sleep. Work. Levitation lost it's charm after two years but watching milk-white porcelain and glass break into a million itty bitty pieces sounded relaxing and therapeutic. The exercise would have done wonders to her magick even. For now, she supposed she'll have to do with tearing pages out of stolen books.

(She was quite aware of the vasts amount of magick she carried. It made sense that it would overflow eventually. Did she really think she could control it?)

Rowan blinked from her position on the footstool, hands wet with suds as she held the plate in one hand and the sponge on the other, having pushed up the sleeves of Dudley's poppy sweater for the chore. "Yes Aunt Petunia?" She spoke in a neutral tone, soft in volume but loud in clarity. If Rowan were asked to describe Petunia with one word, it would be "Mouse". Boring nondescript black-brown hair with matching windows, with skin pulled taut, as if she forced it to fit her body perfectly and a petite figure like a stick. Or a doll. Perhaps a rat would be a better discription, but she didn't know who she felt more sorry for for this description : Pettigrew or the rats themselves.

The mousy woman's face pinched like she sucked a lemon until smoothing out to mimic marble. Fake marble. Grade-A fake marble. Give the woman props for her magnificent talent in forgery.

"You will be staying with Ms. Figg for the rest of the day."

Figg? Arabella Figg? The woman with a dozen or so cats - who she secretly suspected was a part of the wizarding community - _and_ was the very definition of a crazy cat lady? That's... new? She'd never needed a babysitter before, _ever_. In either lives. Did she find out about the cup? Fuck, don't tell her it came to life and blabbed. Talking cups were the last things she needed.

(Ripping-off Cinderella was fine in her opinion, she personally preferred Elsa or Merida - who she had already ripped-off - but now Belle? C'mon!... But if she had to choose between glass slippers and talking tableware, talking tableware wins. Hands down.)

"Al...right?"

Rowan had a feeling this day was about to get odder.

.

.

.

 **11:30 AM**

Rowan eyed the letter with a flat look. She traced the cursive writing of the letter, her fingers looping over the ink spelling out her name. There was one thought, one lone thought floating around in her mind as she processed the letter's loopy message.

/: _Dear Rowan Potter,_

 _I would like to apologize in advance for my absence, but one of my dear kittens had caught a bug. Please enjoy the biscuits while I'm away._

 _Arabella Figg_ :/

" _Is this woman serious!?_ "

The cat meowled between her legs while the one on her head purred.

* * *

[ **End of Act I, Part I** ]

* * *

- **Preview :** _Part II_ -

 _"Where are those car keys?" She swore something unladylike under her breath as she searched under the bed._

* * *

 **note ii :** i need a new summary. would you like to recommend?

 **Review whether you're a guest or an author.**


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